


two of cups, reversed

by mongrelmind



Category: RYC | Reverse Yi City - kevinkevinson, 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV), 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù
Genre: Background Relationships, Blow Jobs, M/M, POV Second Person, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:48:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28602462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mongrelmind/pseuds/mongrelmind
Summary: Here is a good man, on his knees in your brother’s second bathroom, desperate to suck you off. He knows where you’ve been and what you are. He has seen you naked and has seen you flayed. And yet.“Nie Mingjue,” you say, just to speak his name into the space between you, to recognize his presence there.
Relationships: Mèng Yáo | Jīn Guāngyáo/Niè Míngjué
Comments: 12
Kudos: 81





	two of cups, reversed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kevinkevinson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kevinkevinson/gifts).



> For Casey, a very meager birthday present delivered a fortnight early.  
> This takes place rather late in their reincarnation AU timeline, after a lot of things have happened and some bridges have been if not mended then at least replaced.

If you were other than you are, there would have been a moment of fear when you felt his fingers closing around your elbow as he grabbed you from behind, outside your field of vision. But you’d know how his hands feel on your body with your eyes closed, in the dark. Thick fingers. Blunt, clean fingernails. You’d know him in death. You already did. 

He grabs you, then, and you know him, but you don’t know what he wants. 

That is concerning. 

Has he forgotten that you’re supposed to be playing at being in love? At being the perfect boyfriends? You can’t think of how to communicate that without anyone else catching on. 

Your father is looking at you, his mouth hanging open like a fish, his eyes flashing between your face and his hand around your arm. 

His thick fingers are digging into the meat of you, the soft flesh of the inside of your arm. When you look back at him, his eyes are dark with something you hesitate to name. 

You don’t know what he wants, why he can’t let you have this moment. You’ve just told your father off, perhaps for the first time, and the next thing you know his hand is pulling you away. 

This all crosses your mind in a second. You were always quick to overthink. 

“Excuse me for a second, Jin Guangshan,” he says, tightening his hold on you as he says your father’s name. You do like it when uses his name. He always makes it sound like a vulgar, ugly word. You suppose it is. 

“Mingjue,” you start, but he barely spares you a glance, looking straight at your father as he interrupts you. 

“I need to borrow my boyfriend for a second,” he says and there is nothing for you to do when he tugs you away but to smile apologetically at your father. You like the emphasis Mingjue puts on the word boyfriend, too. He didn’t use to do that when it was true.

Your father is just blinking at you, clearly wanting to speak. 

You see him weigh the options in his head, the perceived risk of drawing attention to you and the man holding your arm in his hand. 

Your father wouldn’t risk it, not today. He lets you go, unscathed.

Mingjue isn’t as kind. 

He drags you out of the room and away from your family and their rich, annoying friends. Away from your brother and his soon-to-be fiancee, away from his brother and the man you both love. 

“Mingjue, are you out of your mind?” you ask as he pulls you into the guest bathroom, locking the door behind you. 

You don’t want to look at him so you look at your arm, the white skin that will soon darken in the shape of his fingertips. You bruise easily. 

“Shut up,” he says, and then his hands are on your waist and he’s lifting you on the marble countertop by the sink and falling to his knees and--  _ oh _ . 

“Didn’t expect you to play the part with so much enthusiasm,” you say, and he glares at you as he undoes your belt and pulls your pants and underwear down. You bite your tongue instead of telling him that he needs to be careful, that these trousers are not new. You bought them second hand. Cheap, but good quality. 

The opposite of you, at least in his mind. He always thought the cost of you was too high for a subpar product. 

You think about making this joke. 

You don’t think he’d laugh. 

His mouth is busy, anyway, licking at your flaccid cock. It takes you a while, sometimes, which makes such passionate displays of impromptu sex difficult, or would if you cared about his knees getting sore. You hook a leg behind his head, the heel of your dress shoes pushing him forward, closer to you. He moans around you, the vibrations traveling up your body, making the hairs at your arms stand up. You could step on his shoulder from this angle. His shirt is white. You don’t know what he’ll say if it got stained. 

You don’t care.

Your trousers and underwear catch against his neck, black fabric hiding the rest of him from view. You used to press your forearm against his neck when you fucked. You used to keep his head on a shelf. 

You reach down and touch his cheek, the corner of his lips. You can feel yourself growing hard. You watch the way your cock disappears into his mouth, the way his lips stretch around it, and try not to feel awed. 

Here is a good man, on his knees in your brother’s second bathroom, desperate to suck you off. He knows where you’ve been and what you are. He has seen you naked and has seen you flayed. And yet. 

“Nie Mingjue,” you say, just to speak his name into the space between you, to recognize his presence there. 

You’re now fully hard, so when he stops and pulls back you can’t help but twitch towards the heat of his mouth. 

He’s smiling when he looks up at you, crinkling his eyes in a way that makes him look younger than he is. Softer. If his teeth weren’t an inch from your cock you’d slap him.

A bead of precome is forming on the head of your cock and he licks it off without looking away from you. 

“Do you want to talk,” he asks, stroking you with a warm hand, slick from his earlier attentions and your own eagerness. “Or do you want to fuck my face?”

“You’ll be the death of me,” you answer, more honest than is comfortable. 

He raises an eyebrow, hovering above you as you ache. 

“Again,” he says. 

You wrap his braid around your hand like a coil of rope, like a guqin string, and push your cock slowly into his wet, hot mouth. 

“You’ll be the death of me  _ again _ ,” you say, and fuck him.

Outside the bathroom door, your brother is getting engaged to a woman that doesn’t love him. Outside the bathroom door, you two are pretending to be in love, pretending you don’t know each other too well for any affection to survive the rotting wasteland of your past. Here, now, you breathe out his name as he closes his eyes and lets you fuck his throat. His hand slides under your shirt, desperate to touch bare skin. He pinches your nipple, drags blunt nails down your torso. 

You stop thinking. 

He was always too damn good with his mouth. 

You hold his head still and push in as far as you can, until his face is pressed against you and his eyes are tearing up, despite himself. He doesn’t choke, but you can feel him struggling to breathe properly. His nose, you know, will start running soon if you keep this up. He hates that. 

You fuck him like this, in sharp, small thrusts until you feel yourself reaching the peak. 

Embarrassingly, you lock eyes as you come, spilling in the back of his throat, mouth wrapped silently around the syllables of his name. 

He takes it, swallowing you down, keeping you in his mouth until you’re spent, then pulling away with a final lick to clean your softening cock. You unclench your hand that was clutching at the edge of the sink, white-knuckled. 

You have always been very sensitive after an orgasm, every touch a sharp stab of pain that makes your teeth jarr. He knows this, so he is careful not to touch you again, even as he presses his forehead into your thigh, catching his breath. His moustache tickles your skin. He hasn't kissed you, of course, but he leaves a bite mark in your thigh, sting softened with kisses.

You’re not going to mention the wetness his eyes leave behind as he pulls away. That is your kindness. 

His kindness is the careful way he tucks you back in your trousers, making an effort to tuck in your shirt to its previous perfection.

It doesn’t work, of course, the results are sloppy. 

You don’t correct him. 

No one will notice, after all, except maybe your father, and you have no qualms about him knowing exactly what you’ve been up to. 

You slide off the countertop, knees buckling a little as you stand. Embarrassing, but unavoidable. You don’t think he noticed, at least. 

Small mercies. 

“I’m going to leave first,” you say, as he washes his hands and face in the sink. 

He looks up at your voice, meets your eyes through the mirror, nods. 

There are things to be said between you. There always will be. You could spend a thousand years speaking and not make a dent in their number.

You close the door behind you and slip back into the party unnoticed.


End file.
